


Seconds

by passionfruits



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Clothed Sex, Established Relationship, Gay Sex, Hand Jobs, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Hand Jobs, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Frustration, Shameless Smut, Smut, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 05:06:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6690865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/passionfruits/pseuds/passionfruits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It would be very gratifying, Damen thought, emboldened with wine and Laurent’s cavalier Veretian guise, left hand finding its way to Laurent's calf, to incite his private Laurent in public.</p><p>Alternate title: DAMEN’S WELL-DESERVED REVENGE FOR BOOK ONE (and mine because I was so disgusted I almost couldn’t read it and then I would have missed the goodness of the next two and retrospective clarity).<br/>Alternate alternate title, or what I named this page in my Scrivener file: damen touchy</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seconds

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly I was just gonna write Firsts and leave it at that but then y’all were like, write more, and I was like, what more would I even write, that's all I needed, and then I thought about it, and then I realized, THIS. I can't wait for it to spiral because Laurent is needy and will expect increasingly risky locations and performances and Damen gets off on getting Laurent off. Also, I needed an excuse to come up with an endless stream of catty Laurent lines. I love it when Laurent does that thing where he projects what he thinks about himself onto Damen (filthy painted slut, anyone?).

Damen was bored, and warm with wine. The hunting party sprawled on cushions around Nikandros's low dining table, lamplight heating their backs. Nikandros and Makenos had been openly arguing the best attack line formations in sight and sound of Jord, who took note of preferred Akielan war tactics with keen interest. Pallas and Lazar whispered together and made a great show of their doting touches, punctured by laughter and engagement with the table’s myriad conversations.

Close enough by his side that their shoulders brushed sat Laurent, who listened with polite interest and a small, indulgent smile. Not bored, exactly, but not all there.

The food was good, the drink was fine, the men honestly enjoyed each other’s relaxed company. The air was rife with slow-roasted spoils and camaraderie. The mood was perfect.

And yet Damen was bored.

He found two things about the setting irritating and irresistible: Laurent’s still-unreadable Veretian courtliness, and the fact that this Laurent, public Laurent, cold, untouchable, unobtainable Laurent, would never betray even the slightest hint that he was the same man as sweet lover Laurent.

Lazar leaned over his plate of venison with a lascivious grin, eyes trained on Damen. “Was there a bear in the woods last night? We heard a veritable cacophony coming from around your tent.”

“We.” Laurent arched an eyebrow at wilting Pallas and boisterous Lazar, eyes cold. “As you well know, that was him.” Laurent raised his chin toward Damen. “I sucked his cock. He reciprocated. A wonderful manifestation of our kingdoms' union.”

Every ribald tease from the feasting hunters was met with dry, vulgar, bored confirmation: “Don't be ridiculous. Twenty fucks in one night is excessive even for rutting kings. It was nineteen, and he begged me to mount him for the majority of it.” And then, “Why playact? We have all the levels of intrigue we need. I loathed him for years. He attended me for months. We’ve enough maudlin frippery between us to fill the pages of three Akielan tragedies.”

Even Damen’s deliberately loud proclamation that Laurent ought to wash his mouth out with soap received a dismissive riposte; Damen found the proverbial dirtiness of his mouth quite pleasing in bed, thank you very much, and that was that. Ended with cold precision.

It would be very gratifying, Damen thought, emboldened with wine and Laurent’s cavalier Veretian guise, left hand finding its way to Laurent's calf, to incite his private Laurent in public.

Laurent, resplendently languid with his chin perched just so on his wrist, attention politely focused on nothing in particular, hardly noted Damen’s wandering hand until it brushed, unmistakably, against his clothed cock.

Laurent froze.

Damen didn’t dare look. He kept very still, waiting for Laurent to puzzle out his emotions, knowing full well that once he did, he would smack Damen’s hand away with a buzz of irritation and a quip about his insatiable desire and inability to separate work and pleasure.

Laurent did not do either of these things. Laurent did not do anything.

Damen's arm tensed with the intention to move his hand away. It was met with iron resistance in the form of a slender hand clamping down around his cuff, locking him in place.

Damen’s mouth watered; he swallowed, throat dry, tongue thick and useless.

Eyes on his cup of wine, Damen smiled, and moved his index finger against unyielding fabric.

Laurent released Damen’s wrist, shifted in his seat, canted his right leg and lifted his left, slightly, so Damen might have better access, and no one else would know.

Damen breathed Laurent's every minute reaction. He knew, from heady experience, that the slower, the more painstaking, the more agonizing, the better for his caustic little prince. With the curl of Damen’s fingers around his balls, Laurent’s shoulders twisted, as if he were trying to break from his lacings, as if he were finally realizing the impracticalities of his native attire.

Damen thought everyone might notice, and thought he didn’t care.

Fingers trembling ever so slightly, Laurent lifted his glass to his lips, as if he could drink away the parched heat coloring his cheeks, suppress his hips’ slow grinding against Damen’s hand.

Damen wrapped his hand around as much of Laurent’s cock as he could and slowly clenched, relaxed, clenched, relaxed, and mapped its stiff length with his fingers.

Laurent choked on his water.

Jord’s brow furrowed. “Majesty, are you well?

A moment’s pause in words, but not Damen’s lazy fondling. Laurent floundered, grasping for slippery language. “Yes,” he ground out through gritted teeth.

As Laurent would say (if Laurent were capable of rational thought), Damen was beyond hot for it.

A delicious rhythm surfaced, one of action, reaction, question, answer, and extremely helpful interjections, courtesy of Damen:

Damen drummed his fingers against Laurent’s inner thigh. Laurent half-moaned and crushed his legs together, trapping Damen’s hand firmly against his hard shaft.

“Your face is ruddier than the deer we brought down together!” Makenos.

“I may have become inebriated.” Laurent.

“Poor thing can’t hold his liquor, you know.” Damen’s thumb circled fabric.

Laurent’s lips parted with wordless need.

“Never seen you drink.” Lazar.

“Perhaps we switched cups.” Laurent.

“Are we so close?” Damen.

Maybe it was simply the subtle rocking against his hand, but Damen swore he could feel Laurent’s cock throbbing even through layers of clothing, his pulse amplified through closeness, sensitivity, and heat. As if his thick clothes melted away at Damen’s touch.

“Were you wounded in the hunt?“ Nikandros.

“I may be catching cold—“

“You should be in bed,” Damen’s voice drenched with honey.

Only Pallas did not tease, making feeble attempts to return the conversation to its previous, harmless paths. Having seen Laurent’s ability to hold a regal face with Damen over him in full, exposed glory, and having seen what Damen's face looked like when it was full of only Laurent — perhaps he knew.

Laurent’s next thin gasp made it clear that the tight heat of his clothes had become an aid in Damen’s efforts rather than a hindrance.

“Exalted, this is hardly the time for jokes. His Majesty has a sickly sheen. Shall I send for Paschal?” Jord, ever the worrier.

“I am perfectly —”

“Adequate?” Damen’s grin was toothy and shining with innocence. His hand was full of Laurent’s aching cock.

Laurent shot Damen a look that would have leveled an army, his palms pressed white-knuckled into his knees, bracing his shaking frame against the irresistible desire for release.

“Since you are all so eager to baby me,” Laurent said slowly, each word balancing on a knife’s edge, “shall I return the favor?” With every tendon in his neck straining, with every ounce of self control he possessed, Laurent shut down the interrogation and unleashed hell.

Every sharp phrase couched hidden meaning, and Damen was the only one who spoke his language.

“Lazar, rather than fantasizing about your kings, worry about your own bed. The scant seconds of animalistic grunting Pallas endures at your hands are abjectly mortifying.”

_More, slowly, make this last forever._

Damen lightened his grip until his fingers merely ghosted across fabric.

“Makedon, in your drunken stupor your dress is slipping from its moorings. No one need witness a bear past its prime.”

_Undo my laces and touch me properly._

Damen’s fingers teased under the edges of Laurent’s jacket, the laces of his pants, brushed against a flash of hot skin and sweat-damp hair and retreated in one long, slow rub down the front of Laurent’s pants.

“Nikandros, this craftsmanship is admirable. From whom did you purchase such mealy wood?"

_Fuck me on the table. Fuck your modesty. I don’t care if every empire risen and fallen throughout history sees._

Damen circled his hand around as much of Laurent as he could fit and tugged in quick, tight, jerking motions. 

“Why yes, Jord, Damianos _could_ do with a healthy dose of my admirable asceticism.”

_I'm going to return this frustration a hundredfold, tease you into desperation, and refuse you release for hours, possibly days, possibly a lifetime._

Damen let go, his hand caressing Laurent's thigh. Laurent clapped a hand over Damen's and shoved it back where it belonged. 

When Laurent’s hips spasmed his cock against Damen’s hand, begging for true friction, accompanied by a frustrated groan, Laurent’s scrabbling cover of “It's just so,” his voice almost breaking, “— hard —“ Damen couldn’t listen to the rest of the sentence, lest he dissolve into stitches.

He rubbed Laurent out as hard and fast as he could. 

With small, repressed shudders and fluttering eyelids ( _A perfect exercise of your admirable asceticism_ , Damen wished to say), Laurent came. The proof spurted inside cloth and frills, tightly laced from wrists to ankles. It would be a sight when Damen undressed him. Damen hoped that would be soon.

Laurent lolled his head onto Damen’s shoulder, utterly spent, in pretense of a swoon.

Damen wrapped an arm around Laurent’s waist in an effortless catch and lifted his chin, smoothing his hand along cheeks, against forehead, through sweaty hair, pretending to check for fever.

“Ill after all,” Damen proclaimed. “I imagine it will be days before he is recovered. I will be sure to keep him on strict bedrest.”

“You’re the only one who could,” Jord said, entirely seriously.

Laurent’s bright blue eyes were glazed, his cheeks flushed, his breath a shallow, menacing whisper, audible only to Damen. To their audience, it was mere fevered rambling. “I’m going to gut you for this, sweetheart.”

Damen pressed his lips to the curve of Laurent’s ear. “As long as you do it with your cock, sweetheart.”

Laurent’s smile was angelic, the nails that carved crescents into Damen’s tender thigh a resounding yes of a promise.


End file.
